Killer Instinct

Chapter One

I STUDY SERIAL KILLERS. THEY’RE loners. Obsessive-compulsives. People who lack emotion and fantasize about violence. Intelligent people who on the outside seem normal.

Interesting thing is, I fit that profile. I have urges. I plot ways to violently make people pay for what they’ve done to others.

Nature versus nurture. Of course I’ve studied that. I’ve got good parents with decent genetics, so for me I’ve always suspected it’s something else. Except . . . I have no clue what.

I don’t know why I am the way I am, why I think the way I think, why I do the things I do. All I know is that I’m different. Always have been. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know something was off in me.

At ten, when other kids were coloring with crayons, I started tracking serial killers and keeping details of their murders in a journal—a journal no one has ever seen but me.

Now, nearly seven years later, most teens hang out with friends. I, however, prefer spending my spare time at the courthouse—with Judge Penn to be exact. He tries all the hard cases.

His staff expects to see me, believing my lie about wanting to go into law, and so I give my customary nod as I enter the back of Penn’s court and quietly take my usual spot in the left rear corner. I sit down and get out my summer reading just in case today’s calendar is boring.

It’s not.

A balding, short, pudgy, accountant-type man sits beside a slick lawyer he’s obviously spent a lot of money on. The Weasel is what I decide to name him.

In the viewing gallery sit a handful of women; three are crying and two stoically stare straight ahead.

On the stand is another of the expressionless ones, and she’s speaking, ". . . classical music, a candle. He knew his way around, like he’d been in my house before. He handcuffed my ankles and wrists to the bedposts and stuffed gauze in my mouth so my screams couldn’t be heard. He cut my clothes away and left me naked. He wore a condom and was clean shaven, everywhere. He had a full-face mask on."

No evidence.

He raped me, she matter-of-factly reports, and then describes in detail all the vicious ways he violated her.

I’m going to be sick, the woman in front of me whispers before getting up and leaving the room.

I continue listening to the details, mentally cataloging them. Details don’t bother me. They don’t make me sick. They don’t make me want to leave a room. If anything they draw me in because they are just that—details, facts.

A few of the women in the room sniffle, and I glance to the Weasel. Although he’s doing a good job of keeping his emotions blank, I catch a slight smirk on his lips that kicks my pulse.

This is one of the things I consider a talent of mine. While some people show every emotion, I show none. And I can read others’ body language, others’ faces when they think they’re doing a stellar job of masking. The Weasel obviously thinks he’s getting away with something.

Thirty minutes later the Weasel is found not guilty due to lack of evidence. As he walks from the court room, his slight smirk becomes more visible when he glances at one of the sniffling women.

This is another thing people make the mistake of—­confidence, cockiness, ego.

The Weasel will rape again. Of this I’m sure.

If it is my destiny to be a killer, I’m going to need a type. And today decides that my type will be criminals—specifically, those who have managed to avoid punishment.

I turn seventeen next week. The Weasel will be my birthday present to myself. I think I’ve just found my first victim.

Chapter Two

AS I PUSH DOWN ON the French press plunger, I glance across the kitchen counter to my fifteen-year-old younger sister. She’s the quintessential perfect teenager. Popular, student council, flat-ironed blond hair, okay grades, cheerleader, great clothes, curvy, cute body.

These are not the reasons I dislike her. I know the real Daisy. Her popularity is milked from others, her blond hair is fake, her okay grades come from cheating, and she plays the I’m-your-best-friend game a little too well.

Who makes French press every morning? she says snidely, always showing me her true self.

I don’t bother responding.

My still-sleepy eight-year-old brother shuffles in and wraps his arms around my waist. Morning, Lane.

I give him a hug. Morning.

Both Daisy and my brother, Justin, are half siblings to me. Although I remind myself of that fact nearly every day with Daisy, I’ve never once with Justin.

Justin had been labeled learning disabled early on, but looking at him you’d never know anything’s wrong. There’s just something not firing up there in that complicated brain of his.

I put my arm around his skinny shoulders. You scared about starting the big team-taught classes this year? He used to be in all small self-contained ones.

A little, he mumbles.

Your teachers wouldn’t have recommended it if they didn’t believe in you, Daisy says encouragingly.

Our mutual love of Justin is the only thing that keeps me somewhat, and I do stress the word somewhat, okay with my ­sister.

Our mom clicks into the kitchen on her sensible heels. Good morning, children!

That’s a little too cheery for a first day of school, I joke.

She tugs on the tips of my long kinky red hair. Love it down.

I gift her one of my rare smiles. Thanks.

I divide the strong roast between two travel mugs and slide one across the granite counter to Mom. She grins as if I’ve just served up the Holy Grail on a platter, and that is the reason I go through the trouble of making great coffee every morning.

She gives me a peck on the cheek, then leans down to do the same to Justin. Phew, go brush your teeth.

He breathes on her just to be ornery, and shuffles off to the bathroom.

Mom rounds the kitchen island to kiss Daisy, who does her customary avoidance by hopping off her stool and heading up to her bedroom.

This is yet another reason why Daisy tiptoes a fine line with me. Let Mom kiss you already. It won’t kill you.

Pretending she’s not hurt, Mom turns to me. My first big day too. She motions to her navy suit. Good?

Mom works in DC at FBI headquarters. So does my stepdad, Victor. That’s where they met after my dad died. Except Mom’s climbed the promotions ladder a lot quicker than ­Victor. Her latest step up is the biggest ever. Director of the behavioral Analysis unit. They handle serial killers.

What did he do when you caught him?

How did he pick his victims?

Was there a lot of blood?

There’s a video of the kill room? Can I watch it?

Mom had always patiently answered my questions as honestly as possible, writing it off as healthy kid interest. But when I asked her that last one, I could tell it weirded her out, which is why I stopped asking questions several years ago.

You look great, Mom. Very director.

She grabs her purse. Dad’ll be back in a few days from California, and then we’ll all do a celebratory dinner.

Sounds good.

Justin doesn’t have aikido today, but he does have after-school tutoring.

I nod. I know.

She laughs. Of course you know. You get your organization from me. She waves her hand around our overly neat house before opening the front door. Later. Can’t wait to hear about first days.

You get your organization from me. That puts it lightly. Mom’s a bit OCD. Attention to details, combing facts, noticing the small things. It makes her very good at her job.

Dressed in my usual skinny jeans, snug tee, and gray Pumas, I grab my school stuff and head out to my Jeep Wrangler. As I wait for Daisy and Justin, my thoughts trail to the Weasel. I wonder what he’s doing this very second. He’s probably heading to work, like every other adult. Unlike every other adult, he’s going to sit in his safe little office, think about the women he’s raped, and plan the next one. Just the vision has me clenching my jaw. . . . He’ll get what he deserves.

Justin and Daisy come out of the house, and I refocus my energies on driving. At the elementary campus Justin climbs out. You’re going to do great, I tell him, and he gives me that toothless grin that always tugs at my heart.

Daisy and I pull in to the high school, and she’s already climbing out before I stop. In my peripheral vision I see her bound away and join her sophomore clique.

I’m in the gifted-and-talented program so most of my senior classes are in the GT wing.

Slim, my last-year lab partner greets me as I enter the main building.

Hey. I’ve been called Slim for as long as I can remember. I’m five-eight, skinny, and flat-chested. It’s not like I try to be skinny. I eat normal. Mom says I get it from my real dad’s side of the family.

At my locker the science club president comes up. How’s it going, Slim?

Sometimes I wonder if people remember my name’s Lane. Good.

Go anywhere this summer?

I spin my combination. Nope. Just the courthouse, but that’s my little secret. Among other things . . .

He hands me a flyer. I’m assuming you’re doing science club again?

I take the flyer. Sure. The science club is my main attempt at socializing. Other than that I keep to myself, don’t speak unless I have something notable to say, and don’t care what people think. If that avoidance behavior makes me unpopular, then so be it.

Great. We’re aiming for the national plaque this year, so we can use all the smart we can get. We’re looking at . . .

His voice fades away as my thoughts trickle in. I need to go to the main office and make sure I snag the TA job for the library this year. Sure my scores are high enough, but I need extracurricular if I’m getting into UVA’s Biology program.

All right. First meeting’s next Wednesday after school. See you then, he says, and heads off.

Yeah, see you then.

I go through my first day of senior year as expected. I do indeed get the TA job. I go to all my classes with the same teachers and same students as my other years. When you’re in GT, it’s like that. There are no surprises. Boring’s good. At least where normal life’s concerned, boring’s good.

I don’t see my sister until it’s time to leave. I’ll catch a ride home, she tells me. We—she motions over her shoulder to her pack of annoying friends—are going to hang out.

I nod and don’t bother reminding her Mom wants us all home by seven for dinner. If Daisy doesn’t remember, it’s not my problem.

Justin’s in his after-school tutoring program so I head straight to the army surplus store. I need to browse supplies and brainstorm a little. I have to figure out how I’m going to deal with the Weasel.

Chapter Three

I MET MY ONLY REAL friend, Reggie, when I was eight and she ten. We shared bunk beds at a science and technology summer camp. We immediately clicked on a, let’s just say, weird level. We got each other. We let each other be who we needed to be. We were okay to sit for an hour and not speak. We were who we were, and that was fine with both of us.

When I was ten and she twelve, we attended our usual summer camp. There was this girl who picked on everybody. She was horrible. She’d rub poison oak on girls’ underwear. She’d pour acetone in shampoo bottles. She’d take pictures in the showers and pass them among the boy campers.

Pranks are okay, but hers were way too mean-spirited to qualify as pranks.

When I told Reggie that I wanted to make the girl pay, ­Reggie didn’t blink an eye.

And when I told her how I intended on making her pay, Reggie said, Want some help? I knew then that we were soul mates.

But I didn’t make Reggie help me—my thing is my thing. And when the girl showed up the next day with an oak rash on her ass, acetone burns on her scalp, and naked pictures all over the boys’ cottages, she never messed with anyone again.

Making people pay for their dysfunctional aggression allows me to deal with my own urges. I learned that a long time ago. When I first shared that thought with Reggie, she nodded and replied, I get that.

Reggie’s from upstate New York, and summer camp was always the only time we ever saw each other. She earned a full-ride scholarship to MIT.

She’s got to be the smartest person I know, and she’s got her cyberfingers in everything. Thanks to her I’ve learned a thing or two about hacking, about covering my tracks, about using different IP addresses so things can’t be traced. Of course I’m nothing at her level, but I can do basic things like get an address for Paul Dryer, otherwise known as the Weasel.

I grab my book bag. Mom, I’m gone.

Set the alarm when you get home, she yells from her bathroom.

There’s a late-night coffeehouse a few blocks away from our house. At first I went to be alone, to study, to drink coffee. Between Daisy, Justin, and my parents, I’ve always found it hard to concentrate at home.

Mom respects that I need my space, and as long as I’m home by midnight, she’s okay with me going to that coffeehouse.

Yes, at first I used to really go there, but over the past year I’ve used the time to prowl the streets. I drive the neighborhoods people avoid. I watch drug deals go down, hookers get picked up, and drunks stumble the sidewalks. I follow them . . . watch them . . . learn them . . . I absorb the fear that at first watching them caused but now only draws me in. It both puzzles and mesmerizes me.

I crave my night outings, and on more than one occasion have caught myself zoning out during the day thinking about them. Sometimes they consume me. They fulfill a part of me I’ve yet to figure out. I can’t help but wonder that if just watching these deviants causes my blood to race through my body, what will actually taking one of them down do to me?

That last thought rolls around in my brain as I drive my Wrangler straight to the Weasel’s address and park across the street. In the one spot not illuminated by a streetlamp, I get out my binoculars and zero in on his third-floor condo. Immediately I pull back.

The man’s not shy at all.

Naked, he strolls around his condo brushing his teeth and then talking on the phone. He gets done with that and goes on to ironing. Personally, I don’t care for being naked. I